Earthbound Angel
by Sarlicsooth
Summary: Scars are supposed to be ugly reminders of the past; nothing more, nothing less. But when England looks upon Hong Kong's, he sees something more than that, which triggers a series of events in which these two grow and change in their experience. UKHK. (Discontinued at the moment. Sorry for the inconvenience!)


Hello everyone. It's been quite some time since I've written a fic, and my first for the Hetalia fandom. My writing style has improved since my last time making a story, so I'm excited to see all of your opinions!

So, please enjoy reading!

_**Disclaimer:**I do not own Hetalia or the characters. I do not gain profit while writing, just the enjoyment of writing, letting people enjoy themselves, and improvement in my style._

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The scars were carved into his flesh, etched into his skin, and still visible in the dim, soft glow of light that radiated from the center of the ceiling. They began at the top of his shoulder blades, incised sharply and straight down to the middle of his back, just short of where his rib cage ended. They were liberal and horrifyingly deep, which was only enhanced by his pallid peel, but sill only a ghost to the wounds that were once fresh and lurid to the eyes that ever had the misfortune of looking upon them. These engraved symbols were homely to most, and rightfully so, but the person who held the most disgust for these scars was none other than the one that bore them on his body.

He shivered as his numb fingers worked on sliding the usual attire off his drenched skin. With his luck, it should have been quite apparent that the rain would fall like liquid bullets before they could make it to the meeting building. When they, himself, China, and Macau, had arrived, soaked and discontent, the other nations fell upon them. Some offered to help dry and make well, while quite a few began to snicker and even take a few pictures for souvenirs before retreating to their seats.

Leon had been dragged off by the arm while Yao was in the middle of snapping at a pleased American that was now going through the pictures on his phone. He felt it strange that it had been Arthur who was dragging him to whatever destination he had in mind. Which brings us to the current situation.

In all honesty, he wished that the Englishman had not bothered in helping at all. The rainwater had sunk through his clothes and into the bandages that were wrapped tightly around his torso. Now let it be known he didn't bother with covering up the scars at all hours of the day, but only when he was planning to come into contact with many others, primarily his fellow nations. It spared him the situation of having to convey the dreaded story.

But Arthur already knew, and Leon fully understood that he did. Yet, it was still embarrassing to reveal them to the man. They were ugly, left there by the torturers that had made sure they would never fade so long as he lived. And fade they did not, for they were as noticeable as the day they had fully healed and officially became scars. And feeling the pair of watchful and experienced eyes trace along his being made his teeth grit and his hands clench around the dry cloth that was now in his possession. Anger, frustration, and annoyance bubbled in his throat and mixed into a dangerous poison that made his blood boil.

"Don't you, like, have a meeting to be at? I can dress myself." His regular rebellious tone and teenager-like attitude shone through his words like the sun through the branches of green trees. Obvious, but not drenching himself with the impression of some everyday brat. And with this he had hoped the other man would leave him be, but to no avail. He sat there, on his hotel bed, arms crossed and emerald eyes, beyond doubt, watching. "Oi, like, have you gone deaf?"

"Why do you hide them so?" was the reply that he got. It had been the first time he had spoken to him as of today. And the question caught the special administrative region off guard. It was, to him and likely most others, painfully obvious as to why he would cover them up. They were unattractive and noticeable, and he didn't want them to be seen for those reasons.

"All that tea must have gone to your head," muttered Leon, seeing no need to really answer the question given to him. Instead, he focused on slipping into the dry and stuffy western wear. That is, until he felt a hand grab at his wrist, preventing the shirt to fully fit his body. And it was this that made the former British colony snap with frustration.

"Hands off! I don't know what's going on in your mind, but you better, like, snap out of it!"

"Hold your tongue and be still," he murmured, soft but firm. And Leon did, but only for a moment, to think of what to do next before leaning forward to rear one of his legs back. Arthur, having the experience he gathered over the centuries, expected this and grabbed the region's ankle with his free hand. "I said be still."

His face burned with embarrassment and shame as he tried to wriggle himself free. He could feel the man's eyes on his back, and it only upset him further, to the point that hot words ranted off of his tongue, as quick and electrified as lightning, "Like, stop! What is it with you today anyways, idiot? You already know what happened, now back the hell off!"

But Arthur paid no heed to the hotheaded teen, even as he struggled against his grip. Now that he was in a better position, he lifted up the other's ankle to make him stumble, just in the slightest, and let go of his wrist. The tips of his fingers ran along the scars which were created during the time he was supposed to have control over the teenager. Hong Kong went rigid.

"Teacher is going to be livid when he knows about this, you know! You would've thought that you'd know better-"

"Does it still hurt?"

Whatever words that Leon had planned on saying, quickly died on his tongue and never got their chance to dance about in the air. A peculiar and unexpected question. The atmosphere in the room was growing dense, grim, and suffocating. He knew that Arthur didn't mean the scars, that the notches in his skin weren't of concern in this question. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" His hands were placed upon his back, both, and the region realized he no longer had a grip on him. But the interest to move was snuffed out of him, and he stood there, feeling hollow and empty inside. Except for his heart, which had a deep pain embedded into it. "It's quite alright if it does. It's expected to hurt. I don't know of a single person whom it wouldn't hurt, honestly."

"I want to leave now."

"Why?" It was a fairly simple question, and thus should have a simple answer. However, that was not the case. In fact, the answer he wanted to give could not be verbally put. He knew what he felt, he knew, in a way that could not possibly involve the language of man, what he wished to convey. But none of it would, none of it could come out.

"I don't know."

A grunt escaped the Brit as he stepped back, but the region didn't make a move to cover up the symbolic marks. Arthur had taken his time to observe the other, to take in those scars, to read his body language, and to process what the younger might be feeling. It was fairly simple, all done in a matter of seconds, and subconsciously noted, just as everybody did.

"Oi, the scars are nothing to be ashamed of," the Englishman finally replied. Leon turned his head, drinking in the peculiar countenance the former empire bore, even if it was shadowed by the lackluster light that sunk into the room. "They are a testimony to your strength and survival. Look upon them proudly, not with a chagrined feel to you."

"They're ugly." At this, Arthur paused, and Leon waited for some sort of response. It was strange to be having this conversation, alien almost, and yet, he was taking it naturally.

"It depends on how you look at them."

"They're two big scars, there's nothing else to, like, perceive them as!"

"That's not true," he sighed, shaking his head in disapproval. "Would you like my thoughts on how they look?"

He found that his heart had skipped a beat. Leon didn't deny it, neither in his heart nor his mind, about how he felt. Arthur's opinion, his thoughts, his input, it all mattered. In all of his years, and even to this day, he felt that Arthur was the one that understood him best. And, even if it be true that he hardly understood his former colony, it was obvious that he accepted him for whom he was. And this understanding and accepting of a region that was a mixture of eastern and western culture, with new ideas and a different progression, came with affection. And gradually, as time went on, as you cannot force it to grow and bloom no more than you can a rose, it blossomed into a deep love that ran strong in his heart. It was always there, it was always present, like the beating of his young heart. But, just as humans do, Leon was reluctant to let any of these thoughts or emotions pass through his inner walls. "Like, I guess."

"Truly and wholeheartedly, they look like the marks of an angel," he began, not even taking time to pause at the bewildered look that Leon gave him, "They, to me, look like the marks of where proud and outstanding wings once attached themselves. But, because of happenings in life, innocence and much happiness was burned and ripped away, leaving that angel to weep and mourn for what they had lost."

He wasn't sure what to say at this, so he did not speak. The rain pounding onto the glass of the windows filled the dreadful and vacant atmosphere that had slowly sunk into the room. His hands fidgeted at his sleeves as thoughts ran through his mind, all of which he wanted to say, yet couldn't. Instead he finished dressing, and this time Arthur did not stop him. His pine green eyes finally tore away.

When Leon had made it to the room door, the Englishman's voice stopped him. "Is that it?"

"There's nothing more to say."

"You're right," Arthur murmured, his fingers brushing at the region's wrist just for a fleeting moment. His footsteps had been soft when compared to the wrath of the rain. Louder now, he said, "Yes, you're right. There is nothing more to say."

He turned his head as the sounds of thunder boomed into the dim hotel room of the Englishman. Eyes bore into each other in the strangest of ways, so much so that Leon found himself yet again without words, something rare for him. It didn't take much for the spark to ignite and cause the pent-up and roaring fire to erupt. Lips were against lips as arms entangled themselves around warm, inviting flesh. Lust and pleasure took place of painful memories about the past as the story of the night was taken to the sheets. Sensible thoughts were forgotten that night, as were fellow nations and the world meeting.

But scars are never forgotten long, do not doubt that. Such fickle moments that were defined as something more than notches on bed posts could not completely rid of pain, though not much else did either. For now, he would forget. Tomorrow, however, that would all change. He knew in his feverish frenzy that this wasn't reasonable, but he couldn't care less. Not now, at least. There were no promises, there were no ties, just the pleasure and the forgetfulness He should stop this now, before it got out of hand. But he wouldn't.

He couldn't.

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I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Criticism is very much welcomed.

Thanks, Lovely Black Roses


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